Monday's Angel
by Serronas
Summary: After a horribly messy breakup with Jess, Sam's life can't seem to get much worse; living alone in a crappy little apartment, with a crappy job, and a crappy boss. Things only take a turn for the worse when his boss forces him to assist on his next case to defend Luke Goodwin, a man accused of nearly every felony under the sun. (Full summary inside)


Chapter One:

Monday, April 7th, was historically the worst Monday of Sam Winchester's life. The sun was too bright, the air of his bedroom was too musty, his room was an utter disaster that he hadn't bothered cleaning, and he had the mother of all hangovers throwing a block party in his skull. He should have known better than to go out drinking with Dean on a Sunday. Hell, he should have known better than to go out drinking with Dean at all. But what choice did he have? What did the pain in his head have on the bone-deep ache in his chest?

He groaned and rolled over to get his face out of the evil sunlight, pulled his pillow over his head, and groaned. He figured if he got another sixteen or so hours of sleep he might feel better.

His alarm clock begged to differ.

His alarm clock was a bitch.

Dean was a bitch.

Women were bitches.

The universe was a bitch…

For that moment though, he focused on his alarm clock and the complex ritual of button slamming it took to turn it off. The sound of a groan drew his attention slightly, "Sammy, turn it off!" Dean's voice was a haggard cry of grief from somewhere in the room behind Sam. He went back to defusing his alarm.

With a grunt of annoyance he reached down the small space between his bed and headboard, gripped the cords plugged into the wall and yanked. The monotonous chime of the clock ground to a pained halt and the room fell gloriously silent once more. Sam dropped his head to the pillow and sighed in relief.

Until his phone's alarm blared to life.

"Sammy!" Dean groused.

Sam looked around for the source of the aggravating sound and realized that it was coming from his bathroom. He staggered up, stumbled to the small bathroom connected to the bedroom, and found his phone in the pants pocket of his jeans. He vaguely remembered setting his phone alarm because he knew one alarm wouldn't be enough to pull him from his hungover comatose. Too bad drunk-Sam didn't anticipate just how horrific this particular hangover would be. He was paying the price of a three day binge, after all.

He unlocked the touch screen of his phone with a wince at the bright screen and stared at the message staring him in the face: 'Go to work.'

Right. Sam had done this to himself, and his job was still his responsibility, no matter what happened. He heaved himself up and staggered out of the small bathroom space and took stock of his room. Normally a clean space with a well-made queen size bed, an oak dresser, a treadmill (for those mornings when it was too cold to go running), a shelf of textbooks, and a 27" TV, was now, on this particular Monday, a disaster of empty beer bottles, strewn clothing, and three drawers scattered over the floor. He blinked at the boxers laying over his television.

He saw Dean's hand grope the other side of the bed before his brother's bedhead peeked over the side, "Dude, turn off the lights."

Sam scoffed and leaned heavily against the door frame. "It's the sun, you idiot," he croaked from a sore throat.

Dean fell back to the floor with a thump, "Turn it off, Sammy!"

Sam rolled his eyes and the effort made him wince and reach up to hold his head. "Turn it off yourself," he grumbled as he straightened and staggered for the small living space that was fused with the kitchen. The scene was no better here with empty bags of chips, plates stacked in the sink, and...were those porno magazines? Two steps towards the coffee table confirmed that yes, yes they were.

He lumbered over to the small counter space and pawed at the cupboards above, pulling down his medicine box. The man dutifully (though painfully) pulled out his vitamin pills, then grabbed the Excedrin and padded over to the fridge. The racks inside were laden with empty beer cases but Sam grabbed for the carton of orange juice and, upon finding no clean glasses, drank down the pills straight from the carton like the heathen he didn't care that he was. He took an extra Excedrin and ambled back into the bedroom, setting the pill and carton down on the bed. "Take this," he said to a sleeping Dean before making his way into the bathroom.

The water for the shower ran temperamentally hot/cold, meaning that by the time Sam stepped out he was thoroughly awake (though not happy about it). All of his towels seemed to be dirty and he frowned at himself, grabbing one of the dirty ones with a wince before scrubbing his face.

When he stepped back out into his bedroom he looked to Dean, who sat at the foot of his bed, cradling the orange juice. He looked up with bloodshot eyes and grunted, "Don't tell me you're actually going to work."

Sam fished around for a clean pair of boxers before giving up and grabbing the pair on his television, working on drying his hair as he opened the sliding door to the closet, "I don't think I can call in on a broken heart," he sighed, the act and sound both making him wince.

"Dude, fuck that job. You hate it anyway," his brother chimed and finished off the carton.

"We've had this conversation before. I'm an intern, it's expected that I get treated like crap." He pulled on a fresh blue button down and adjusted the collar in the mirror, then reached for a tie. After several failed attempts he growled and called its status 'good enough' and grabbed for his blazer.

While Sam was checking himself in the mirror to make sure his attire was appropriate, Dean waddled out of the room to go and raid his fridge. When Sam emerged five minutes later, Dean glanced him over, "Dude, fly…" Sam blinked and reached down to fix his fly. Dean rolled his eyes, "Shoes…" Sam looked down and frowned when he realized he was wearing two different pair of shoes. He ducked into his room, exchanged his left shoe for the correct one, and came back out. One more look over and Dean nodded.

Relieved, Sam let his shoulders slump and grabbed an apple from the bowl on his counter, "Alright, I'm off."

Dean didn't stop him, which Sam hoped meant nothing else was amiss. However, the trip to his work was not a pleasant one as he battled the demon that was his hangover. Two subways and a crowded bus in downtown Manhattan were not ideal ways to get over a weekend of nonstop drinking.

The Sinclair building was a proud, shining beacon of every evil thing the world stood for. The phallus-like building was fifty stories of oppression, housing a whole taskforce of brainwashed minions within. It was also, unfortunately, where Sam's soul went to die from Monday through Friday…

Being the law intern of Crowley Henderson was like being the lackey of the lackey. Sam got no respect from anyone, ever. The law department of the Sinclair building was a place people despised just as much as HR, and even the other interns who were bullied by Crowley hated Sam because he was often viewed as 'teacher's pet.' In reality it was just a cruel play against Sam, because while Crowley outwardly treated him as a class above all the other interns, he hated Sam the most and did it just to ostracize him.

The inside of the building was all white walls and cheap blue carpet. Every floor was painfully the same, every office was just a tiny bit too small, and every minion had the same broken look in their eyes. Sam had made it his goal to be different, to do his internship and then leave for good. Crowley was a douche, but certainly nothing that Sam couldn't handle. Not when he had Dean and Jess for support.

But now he was down one major support…

His hand felt too light where his ring had been. The ring with Jess's name engraved on it. His chest felt empty where his heart had been ripped out.

He ascended the tower of depression to the twenty-eighth floor, crammed into a small space filled with horrible music with no less than five other minions at any one time. Nobody ever spoke, they just stared up at the digital numbers rising through each floor. When the doors opened for Sam's floor he pushed his way through, scanned the open room full of desks and people settling into their spaces, and crossed the room towards one of the three offices in the back.

The middle door had a silver nameplate clearly reading 'Crowley Henderson' on its face. It stood ajar, daring anyone foolish enough to make their way inside. Sam wasn't foolish, he was just unfortunately cursed with being his boss's personal whipping boy.

He paused, then knocked. All was silent for a long moment. Maybe Crowley wasn't in yet? It would be a great way to make his day a lot- "Get in here, Moose." – fuck.

Sam sighed and pushed the door open, "What can I do for you today, Mr. Henderson," he breathed, not even trying to sound pleased.

Crowley sat behind a black desk, the portly man staring at the screen of his expensive computer that still ran on Windows XP. He was dressed in his usual black pinstripe suit and red satin tie, his beard stubbornly unshaven and his hair slicked back with too much product. "Moose, I need you to go check on the other little sad orphans and make sure their work is done," he breathed in his natural British accent (which Sam found odd since he claimed to be Scottish) and glanced up, pausing to take in the sight of Sam. He frowned slightly but his eyes were smiling with malice, "Ooh, well someone had a fun weekend. Bachelor party, I take it?"

Sam internally winced, but he steeled himself, "Something like that." He turned and grabbed for the door.

"Hold on, Moose." Crowley sat back and grinned, "I'm a little insulted that I wasn't invited."

"You're my boss…Sir."

The man scoffed and chuckled, "And here I thought we were good friends, you and I. Confiding in one another, braiding each other's hair…"

Sam grimaced, "I thought we agreed not to talk about that, Sir."

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, unlocking it before offering it out to Sam. He frowned upon seeing Crowley's background image was from the day he'd forced Sam to endure him braiding his hair, for no other reason than 'it's fun.'

He handed the phone back, "I'm going to go check on the others."

"Oh, and, Moose," Crowley called, and Sam halted again, a flare of anger spiking up along with his headache. "I'd better not catch you moping around here. Life sucks, get over it." He picked up his phone and started dialing a number as Sam left and had to repress every urge to slam the door.

The 'Orphans' that Crowley had been referring to were his fellow interns. Sam had been designated as 'task manager' and quickly nicknamed 'slave driver' because of it – another of Crowley's many ways to make his life miserable. His head throbbed wildly and he reached up to rub his temples before getting coffee. It would be the only way he would survive the day.

The interns did less than half of the work they had been responsible for, which meant it was up to Sam to pick up their slack. He slumped into his desk and stared at the mountain of files to sift through without really starting. Three cups of coffee in, he finally grabbed a file and opened it up.

By lunch he was able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Or, rather, he was able to see over the stack of files on his desk. That changed when Crowley walked out of his office and dropped a fresh pile of manila folders on top of the precarious paper mountain, "Top priority," he instructed. "Oh, and, Moose? Stop lollygagging." He turned and sauntered back into his office, slamming his door which made Sam jump and wince because his migraine still hadn't quite broken yet.

His fellow interns seemed to be tag-teaming him in order to keep him from his work. They asked him every inane and silly question they could manage that got him up from his desk and had him falling further behind on his work.

What was worst of all was that whenever he did actually sit down to work, his mind tried to stray away from the task at hand. It kept replaying the scenes from last Friday, the fight between him and Jess… The names, the cold dinner, the cold shower afterwards. The ring thrown at his face. He still wasn't quite sure what happened, but he knew it had been his fault. He caught himself texting Jess twice, asking if they could talk. He got no answer throughout the day.

When the clock finally struck five, Sam heaved a sigh of relief. He managed to finish Crowley's 'important' paperwork and gathered up his blazer to make a hasty exit. Of course, the universe couldn't have that. His boss appeared with a casual, tuneless whistle and looked at Sam with a frown, "Leaving so soon, Moose?"

"It's five, I'm off," Sam replied easily.

"And what about your work?"

Sam gestured to the top priority files he'd been assigned, "Done."

Crowley gave him an incredulous look, "Uh, no you're not." He pointed to the remaining mountain of work he had still been working through, "On my desk by tomorrow morning. The hell are we paying you for?" He took the finished files and ambled towards the elevator.

Defeated, Sam dropped back into his chair.

Whose bright idea had it been to be a lawyer?

By the time the last file was finished the sun had long since set. He glanced at his watch and frowned… 9:34. He set the finished work aside, gathered himself up, and dragged himself out of the Sinclair building. The busses had stopped running, and Sam was left with nothing else to do but hail a cab.

It was well past ten before he finally sank into his bed, forgetting that he had unplugged his alarm clock, which would ensure that he was late to work the next day.

The week passed at an agonizing rate, following the frustrating pace set on Monday. In a very small way, Sam was a little grateful. His busy schedule kept him from dwelling too much on his breakup, but it only served to make the nights even lonelier. His bed felt too cold, his fridge had too much food, his phone didn't buzz as much…

Dean helped when he could, but his version of 'helping' too often involved alcohol and women. But he tried, and Sam appreciated that more than Dean would ever know.

All he could do was let time work its magic and piece together what remained of his heart.


End file.
